


Rain

by scorchedtrees



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedtrees/pseuds/scorchedtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While outside the Keep chasing a cat, Arya gets caught in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Arya/Gendry Week Day 3: Rain. Uh hopefully this is somewhat plausible lol.

Arya’s gotten so used to the sweltering heat of King’s Landing that when a single fat raindrop lands on her nose, it takes her a moment to comprehend what it is.

She’s stalking a cat in the streets, trying to be just as silent, choosing her steps carefully and avoiding puddles and other questionable-looking things littering the ground. The second the next raindrop falls, the cat abandons all stealth, letting out a yowl as it leaps away, and before she can follow or turn back in the direction of the Keep, rain begins to fall in torrents.

Instantly she is drenched, her clothing soaked through, her hair sticking to the back of her neck, and she makes a face as she ducks into an alleyway, looking around for something she can stand under to avoid the deluge. Not many others are out but those who are shake their heads and hurry away, clearly seeking shelter nearby.

The castle isn’t too far away but Arya doesn’t want to make the trek through the downpour; already the dirt of the streets is turning into mud, rivulets of water running down the cracks in the stones. Her hands and face feel clammy like they have been that way for hours, but despite the rain, the air is still muggy, dampness clinging to her like a second skin as water slides off her body and sinks into her clothes.

Her shoes are probably ruined, she thinks as she slogs through the alley, clinging to the wall like it might offer some protection. The open street beyond has quickly been deserted, doors closed and curtains drawn shut, and she wonders if anyone will let a dirty, wet little girl track mud in.

She’s standing at the edge of the street, pushing her sopping hair out of her eyes and blinking through the rain, when she hears someone hiss, “Over here!”

Turning, she spots a hand waving at her from beneath a large wooden stall outside a small shop. The stall looks abandoned, no wares in sight, its top uncovered, one of the wheels broken, but the space beneath it is empty and when she approaches, she sees a boy huddled underneath, a bag clutched to his chest and soot streaked across his face.

“Who’re you?” she asks, but she joins him below the slabs of wood thankfully still nailed together at the top. It is a tight fit—he looks to be her older brothers’ age and his shoulders are broad—but she’s small.

“Tobho Mott’s apprentice,” he mumbles. “Just got something for my master and left before the rain started. Dirk wouldn’t let me back in after.” Her knees are pressed against his in the cramped area and she can see the wariness in his blue eyes as he squints at her. “I never seen you around before. Who’re you?”

“Arya,” she says, trying to wipe her face dry with her sleeves before realizing she’s only moving the rainwater from place to place. She gives up and settles down instead, pressing her back into the uncomfortable wooden boards. Raindrops drum on top of the stall, the occasional one slipping in, but it is much more preferable to being pounded by them constantly.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Chasing a cat,” she says, because she can think of no better answer.

The boy scoffs and she jabs him in the shoulder with a finger. “What’s so funny?”

“Least I was doing something useful,” he snorts.

She jabs him again, harder, because there is not much room to maneuver underneath the stall. He shrugs and she lets it slide.

They stay there in silence for a while, listening to the rain over their heads and watching it flow past in the streets outside. Arya starts to feel cold, the chill of her damp clothes overtaking the sticky humidity of the air, but she can feel body heat emanating from the boy like a furnace and she resists the urge to lean closer to the warmth.

“What’s your name?” she finally says, because one can only listen to and stare at dreary, gray rain for so long.

He shifts a bit, moving the bag in his arms. “Gendry.”

“What do you do?”

“I told you, I’m Tobho Mott’s apprentice.” At her blank look, he says, “The master armorer? You must’ve heard of him.”

“I haven’t.”

He frowns. “Where’re you from then?”

“I’m from the North,” she informs him, a touch proudly.

“Like the Hand of the King?”

She thinks of her father and hopes he isn’t wondering where she is right now, hopes he isn’t too worried. “Yes.”

“I never been outside King’s Landing,” Gendry says, twisting his hands a little like he wants to stretch his arms, but there is no room. “What’s it like up north?”

She thinks of the castle at Winterfell, so much more welcoming than the Red Keep, of the walls Bran liked to climb and the grounds where her brothers and Theon practice swords and archery and the peaceful quiet of the godswood, but she only says, “Cold.”

He laughs.

The storm goes as quickly as it comes—within a few more minutes, the rain starts to lessen, then stops entirely, and Arya pokes her head tentatively outside. The air is heavy with heat and humidity but nothing touches her face, so she scrambles out at the same time her companion tries to do the same. They bump into each other and sprawl across the ground in two undignified heaps.

“Sorry,” he says, standing right away, offering her a hand. She ignores it, pushing herself to her own feet, ignoring the mud now coating her clothing—her septa is sure to have a fright at seeing her again.

“Bye, Gendry,” she says, turning back towards the alleyway that leads to the road up to the Keep.

“You’re going that way?”

“I live at the Keep.”

He looks at her, uncomprehending, and she sighs. She could tell him she’s a servant girl or a servant’s daughter, but he was awfully nice, letting her squeeze with him underneath the stall for shelter from the rain when he could have let her get wet and leave himself more comfortable, and for some reason she doesn’t want to lie to him. So she says, “I’m the Hand’s daughter.”

Gendry opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he says, “That means… you’re a lady, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps, jabbing him again, though now that they are both standing straight she can only reach his chest easily and not his shoulder. “Don’t call me m’lady or start treating me differently or I’ll kick you.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “A fearsome punishment, m’lady.”

She proceeds to show him just how fearsome her mud-soaked shoes can be.


End file.
